Bella Fortuna

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  We were supposed to get married in the church of Santa Maria della Salute. Though not as grand as St. Mark’s Basilica, the church is a significant historical landmark and dates back hundreds of years. It was built to honor and thank the Madonna for rescuing the city from one of the deathly plagues that had struck. This piece of history I’d learned from the priest I had spoken to over the phone when I was making my wedding arrangements. Hence, the church’s name, which means “Madonna of good health.”

  Of course, I’ve known it would be inevitable that I’d be assaulted with thoughts of my canceled wedding and honeymoon that were supposed to take place in Venice. That’s why Connie had tried to talk me out of taking this trip. But my anger toward Michael refused to let him take away my dream of going to Venice. Maybe I should’ve waited a year or two to come here when my heart would be more healed. But there’s no going back now. And I refuse to ruin this trip with thoughts of what could’ve been. This trip will be about me and no one else.

  Feeling stronger, I stand up. Genuflecting outside of the pew before I turn my back on the altar, I walk outside. My eyes squint fiercely after being in the dimly lit Basilica. A caretaker is sweeping the mosaic tiles on the ground outside. Maybe he knows about guided tours.

  “Scusa, signore.”

  The caretaker glances up at me but continues his sweeping.

  “Dové posso comprare i biglietti per fare il giro della Basilica?”

  “Al presbiterio, signorina.”

  The caretaker gestures with his broom toward the left facade of the Basilica.

  “Ma é chiuso adesso. Ritornera per le dieci di mattina.”

  “Va bene. Molto grazie, signore.”

  The caretaker tips his cap toward me.

  “Buona sera, signorina.”

  I’ll return early in the morning to buy my ticket for a guided tour of the Basilica. No doubt there will be a line of visitors waiting well before the rectory’s opening at ten a.m.

  Since there aren’t as many people out right now, it’s the perfect time to snap more photos. Walking around the immense Basilica, I take photos at every angle. I then turn my attention to Il Palazzo Ducale, which sits behind the Basilica to the far right if one is looking at it from the front. The palace of the dukes, or doges as they were known in Venice, is also breathtaking.

  Walking over to the canal, a row of docked gondolas catches my attention. Even at rest, they hold an artistic beauty. I step back a few feet, capturing the gondolas as well as a few pigeons that are pecking at bread crumbs on the cobblestones before the canal. In the distance, across the water, Il Campanile, or the Watchtower, stands majestically.

  Seeing Il Campanile reminds me to glance at my wristwatch. It’s already four p.m. I’m tempted to get gelato, but I’m still too full from the huge dinner I’d had. Gelato will have to wait until after supper. I’ll make sure to eat nothing more than perhaps a piece of bread with some cheese. I can’t stop yawning and decide to head back to the hotel to take my own siesta. I also need to call my family and let them know I’ve arrived safely. It’s eleven a.m. in New York. Ma, Rita, and Connie will be at the shop. I wonder how busy they are and how the new intern is working out. No doubt they’ll tell me all about it even though we’ll be on a long-distance call. Suddenly a pang of sorrow stabs my heart. I miss them already.

  15

  The Savior

  Olivia was humming to herself as she sewed lace appliqués to the skirt of a tulle ball gown. Not only was sewing her livelihood, but it was also a calming activity for her, especially when she was sewing by hand. There was something soothing about pushing a needle through fabric, creating a perfect tiny stitch, then pulling the needle back up through the garment. Olivia even loved to marvel at the row of stitches marching their way in single or double file, straight through the fabric. Yes, being a seamstress was in her blood, and she took great pride in her craft.

  Though she was sad at seeing Valentina leave for Venice by herself when she was supposed to have left with a groom by her side, Olivia’s spirits couldn’t be dampened, for she’d received good news. Her doctor had called last night to tell Olivia that the cyst they removed from her right breast was benign. She did not have cancer. Olivia had thanked Dr. Preston profusely as if she were a magician who had powers and could transform a malignant cyst into a benign one. Then she’d run up to her room and knelt in front of her night table on which she kept a small porcelain figurine of the Madonna, whom she had prayed feverishly to since she’d detected the mass in her breast.

  Now she would not have to frighten her daughters by telling them she had cancer. It was one thing for them to have lost one parent to the disease. But to have to put her daughters through it a second time would’ve been unthinkable.

  Thank God for Raquel. She had taken Olivia for the ambulatory surgery to remove her cyst. And just as Dr. Preston had promised, Olivia had minimal, if any, pain after the operation. She had scheduled the surgery for Thursday so that she could stay with Raquel over the weekend. She reversed her situation and told the girls Raquel was having minor surgery and needed her help. Olivia couldn’t help smiling at her cleverness, though she felt horrible about lying to the girls. But it was necessary. Surely, God would forgive her this small transgression—she hoped!

  The bell announcing a new customer rang through the air. Connie was in the fitting room area helping a client with her second fitting. Rita had taken an early lunch so that she could go to the post office to pick up a package she’d been expecting. Melanie had the day off, and the new intern had fallen sick with food poisoning. So it was up to Olivia and her daughters to play double-duty today as front desk receptionist. She stood up and walked to the front of the shop.

  A young woman of about twenty-five stood in their reception area, waiting with an older man who looked to be in his sixties. He was probably the girl’s father. This was a growing trend that irked Olivia. Brides-to-be were bringing their fathers and even their fiancés to help choose their wedding gown design. The nerve! This generation today had no respect for traditions that had lasted for hundreds of years. All they wanted to do was change everything. And what bride in her right mind would tempt fate by letting the fiancé see the dress before the wedding day? The bad luck that could bring upon the marriage! Olivia mentally shook her head at the horror of it all.

  But this girl standing before her had no one else escorting her. The other clients who had brought their fathers or fiancés always had at least one woman along as well. You needed a woman’s opinion, after all, someone close to you besides the sales consultants. Maybe the woman’s mother had died? Suddenly, Olivia’s annoyance at the sight of the man softened as she thought about this young bride who possibly did not have a mother to see her get married.

  “Hello. How are you? Welcome to Sposa Rosa. May I help you?”

  Olivia extended her hand first to the woman.

  “Nice to meet you. My name is Francesca, and this is my uncle.”

  The man stepped forward and shook Olivia’s hand. Something odd happened when she shook his hand. A warm sensation shot through her arm. And the man seemed to be holding her hand a little too long as he stared into Olivia’s eyes. When she let go of his hand, a shiver replaced the warm feeling she’d just experienced.

  “Nice to meet you, signora.”

  Olivia could tell from his accent that he was Italian.

  “Piacere.”

  Whenever Olivia learned her clients’ relatives were Italian, she always talked to them in their mother country’s tongue. It was a gesture of respect and to show that she was one of them and could relate to them.

  “We came all the way over from Long Island.”

  Francesca was smiling and definitely had the glow of a recently engaged woman.

  “I hope you did not run into traffic?”

  “Always traffico in New York! Bah!”

  Francesca’s uncle threw his hands up dismissively toward the window, pointing to the traffic out on Ditmars Boule
vard. There was something very familiar about his gesture, but Olivia could not place where she’d seen it before.

  “How did you hear about us, Francesca?”

  “I read the article in Brides magazine. Your shop sounds just like the place to find what I’ve always dreamed I would have when I got married someday—a custom-made dress that could rival a high-end couture dress.”

  “Well, then, you came to the right place. Will anyone else be joining you today?”

  Though Olivia’s daughters often said she had no—what did they call it? Discreet? No, that was not it. Discretion! That was it. She knew she could be very delicate, particularly when she wanted to find something out.

  “No, it’ll just be my uncle and me.”

  Francesca’s eyes looked sad. Olivia regretted that her nosiness had caused the young woman pain. She was about to steer the conversation into a more pleasant topic when Francesca’s uncle suddenly said, “Francesca’s parents died in a car crash fifteen years ago. Her mother was my sister. I have raised Francesca ever since as if she were my own daughter.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Zio has provided me with so much. I know it might be unusual to come shopping for my wedding dress with a man, but he is the only person I could think to have here with me on this special occasion. I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

  Francesca’s uncle put his arm around his niece and smiled at her. His eyes were glistening.

  “Actually, Francesca, it is not so unusual as you might think for a bride-to-be to have a man escort her to shop for her wedding dress. We are seeing it a lot now. In fact, it’s not just fathers and uncles that brides are bringing with them nowadays, but even their fiancés.”

  “What?” Francesca and her uncle cried out in unison.

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

  Francesca wagged her index finger playfully at Olivia as a mischievous smile lit up her beautiful brown eyes. Her brown hair was streaked with soft blond highlights that played up her dark eyes. Her warm, easygoing manners were very attractive. Olivia could tell her uncle had done a fine job in raising her.

  “No, no. I am very serious. You can ask my two daughters who work here with me, actually three, one of them is in Venice right now.”

  “Pazzi! Sono tutti pazzi! Questo mondo sta falliendo!”

  Again, Francesca’s uncle threw his hands up in the air, and again, it looked very familiar to Olivia.

  “Oh, Zio! Stop being so old-fashioned. If a girl really wants her fiancé to help her pick her wedding gown, then why not? It’s all about what she wants, right?”

  Francesca looked to Olivia for approval.

  “I’m sorry, Francesca, but I am going to have to agree with your uncle. I think it is important to keep some traditions, and where is the surprise if the man you are going to marry sees your dress before your wedding day? Brides should want their future husbands to be dazzled when they see them walk down the aisle. I guess I am old-fashioned like your uncle—and superstitious!”

  “Vero, vero.”

  Francesca’s uncle nodded his head with emphatic approval. Olivia couldn’t help noting that like his niece he, too, had a very friendly, likable personality.

  “Superstition! You Italians are all so alike with your malocchio!”

  Francesca rolled her eyes but she was also laughing.

  “You sound like my daughter Valentina. She is always telling me I am too superstitious.”

  “Che bello nome—Valentina!”

  “Grazie, signore. She is my daughter who is in Venice right now.”

  “Chi va a Venezia, tornera!”

  Olivia laughed.

  “What did you say, Zio? You keep forgetting that I don’t know Italian very well.”

  “If you had studied Italian in high school and college like I told you to instead of that useless German, then you would know what I’m saying. Am I right, signora?”

  Olivia looked at Francesca’s uncle. His eyes squinted as he gazed at her intensely, much the way he had when they’d shaken hands earlier. What was it about this man? There was something about him that unnerved her.

  “What your uncle said, Francesca, is a famous saying for people who go to Venice. It means ‘He who goes to Venice will return.’ ”

  “Oh, I think I’ve heard that before, but in English, of course.”

  “So how did you name your daughter, signora? It’s not a common name, even in Italy.”

  “Valentina was born one day before Valentine’s Day. She’s my oldest daughter. When I saw her and remembered that the next day would be Valentine’s Day, I thought to myself that I wanted her to be surrounded by love all of her life. And then the name came to me. My husband at first didn’t want to name her this, but when he heard what I was thinking about surrounding her with love and why not start with her name, he agreed.”

  “What a beautiful story. Isn’t it, Zio?”

  Francesca’s uncle was staring at Olivia again.

  “Speaking of names, I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name, signora, when you introduced yourself.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I think I might have forgotten to give you my name. Sometimes I am so focused on learning the names of my clients and making an immediate connection with them that I forget to tell them my name. Or maybe I am going senile.”

  Olivia laughed. Francesca laughed with her. Only her uncle remained silent. Maybe he thought she was being rude in waiting so long to properly introduce herself.

  “Please forgive me. My name is Olivia DeLuca.”

  “Olivia?”

  Francesca’s uncle’s voice whispered Olivia’s name as if he’d suddenly been stricken with laryngitis. He looked pale.

  “Are you feeling okay, signore? Let me get you a glass of water. Please sit down.”

  Olivia hurried to the back to get a glass of water.

  “Zio, did you remember to take your blood pressure medication ?”

  Francesca sounded worried.

  “He keeps forgetting to take his blood pressure medication.”

  Francesca took her uncle by the arm and led him to the couch in the reception area.

  As Olivia was returning with the water, it dawned on her that she also had not learned the man’s name. Francesca had introduced him merely as her uncle.

  “Drink this slowly.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. DeLuca.”

  Francesca held the glass up to her uncle’s lips gingerly, but he took the glass from his niece and gulped the water down quickly. He then pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  Francesca’s uncle placed his hand on his niece’s shoulder and nodded his head.

  “Can you do me a favor, and go to that bakery next door and buy me an espresso and a few cookies? The caffeine and sugar will probably help my blood sugar.”

  He pulled out his wallet, but Francesca waved it away.

  “I’ll be right back. Will you please look after him?”

  The poor girl looked terrified. She was probably afraid of losing the only family member she had left.

  “Of course, honey. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Thank you.”

  Francesca walked out of the shop.

  “Signore, I’ll get you another glass of water.”

  Olivia began to stand when she heard the man say in a much higher voice this time, “Non mi ricordi?”

  “Scusa, signore. Ma io non ti conosco. Fosse mi hai sbagliato con un’altra donna.”

  Olivia waited for the stranger to say who he was. He seemed very hurt that Olivia did not know him or remember who he was. She stared deeply into his face, looking for something she recognized. His hair was completely gray. Maybe if she imagined him with darker hair. She then remembered the gesture he’d made earlier that seemed so familiar to her. Who had she seen do that?

  An image came to her of a young man walking along the cliff of a mountain and wavi
ng dismissively toward her as she apologized to him. Just as the face of the man came into view, Francesca’s uncle said, “Sera, son’ io.”

  Olivia gasped, placing her hand over her mouth. Only one person had ever called her by her middle name.

  “Salvatore?”

  And now it was Olivia’s turn to look as if she’d seen a ghost. But in her case, she was really seeing a ghost—for she had believed this man had died so many years ago.

  16

  The Lion

  I’m having breakfast, or la prima colazione, at a bar not too far from St. Mark’s Basilica. Unlike in America, bars in Italy are where patrons can get everything from a cup of espresso and pastries to cocktails and even gelato. I order an espresso-flavored granita topped with panna (whipped cream) and a French roll known as a brioche. Originated in Sicily but served throughout Italy, granitas are a cross between sorbet and Italian ice but with more of a crystallized texture. I’d fallen in love with granitas on my first trip to Sicily when I was ten years old. As a child, I’d marveled at the sweet breakfasts Italians had, which often consisted of either granitas or biscotti. Of course, Italians and Europeans eat such light breakfasts to save room for their heavier midday meals.

  Breaking off another piece of brioche and dipping it into the heavenly granita, I have to pinch myself to believe I’m really here in Venice. The bar features arched porticos, giving patrons an unfettered view of the canal. A couple in a gondola that is making its way down the Grand Canal catches my attention. The man’s arm is around the woman’s shoulders. The man whispers into the woman’s ear, and she smiles, looking up into his face. That’s the invitation he’s waiting for as he leans in to kiss her.

  I look away as tears sting my eyes. That couple is supposed to be Michael and me. Though I had been in Venice for only a day, Michael keeps entering my thoughts. I try forcing myself to think of anything but Michael, but it’s hopeless. What haunts me the most are the recurring nightmares I’ve had several times a week since we’ve broken up. In them, that horrible day when Michael ends our engagement replays itself. The dreams always end with me asking him over and over, Why?